


being blue (is better than being over it)

by enjolrarses



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Established Relationship, F/F, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-30
Updated: 2015-04-30
Packaged: 2018-03-26 11:03:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3848575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enjolrarses/pseuds/enjolrarses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>New York’s not the kinda place for slow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	being blue (is better than being over it)

New York’s not the kinda place for slow.

 

Angie’s a girl with her head on straight- she knows what she wants and she knows how to get it, even when she was back taking dime tips from greasy men who wouldn’t know manners if it pinched them on the bum. But this? This isn’t anything she thought she’d get, isn’t anything she’d let herself hope for when she was younger and her mama told her that one day she’d meet a nice boy, or when Jimmy Perkins traded sweet kisses with her in the parking lot and she thought she’d be sick. This isn't what she thought would happen when the man who stood by the corner preaching told her that girls like her would go to hell.

 

(He’d looked like someone’s favourite uncle, the kind of father that hoists you up on their shoulders and took you on piggyback rides around the park.)

 

(His voice had spilled acidic words like water, flowing in her ears and flooding her stomach until she was drowning with them.)

 

People had told her that she needed to tone down her voice, dull her clothing, that she’d never get a man if she was too loud, too bright, _too much_. When she asked them, _what if I don’t want a man?_ they laughed, patted her head, told her that she’d understand when she was older. Like she was a baby, just born, too young and innocent to know her own mind.

 

When she was older, all she knew was that she shouldn’t ask questions anymore.

 

Peggy’s not like her, Angie knows. Peggy’s got _choices_. If she wanted, she could pack this all away. Go on and get herself a man, go back to being _English_ , the girl that would never notice Angie in a million years. Hell, all of America knows that Peggy Carter was Captain America’s girl (or as Peggy liked to put it, Steve Rogers was Peggy Carter’s boy), but no one else in the _world_ knows what Peggy looks like, flushed after being kissed proper, the way she toes her shoes off after a hard day at the office with a glass of red wine in her hand, vitriol spilling out of her mouth as she complains about the men at her work. They don't know the way that she curls up in their bed at night, the covers pulled around her like if she doesn't hang on to them they'll leave her- Lord knows Angie never gets any blankets anymore, sleeping with Peggy the blanket thief.

 

(She keeps extras by the bed during the winter, but in the summer she just folds herself around the Peggy/covers amalgamate and goes back to sleep like that.)

 

Angie’s a girl with her head on straight, and she knows she’s lucky to have Peggy, in all the ways she does- friend, lover, confident. She’s lucky to hear her sighs at night and to wake up to her hair, perfect already (and _Lord_ , isn’t Angie jealous of that), a halo around her grumpy pout. She’s lucky to hand her coffee in the mornings and kiss her forehead over their breakfast. She’s lucky that no one suspects, that no one believes a woman could do what she and Peggy do, both in the night and light of day.

 

There’s a man, a costume and set designer at the theatre where Angie works. His name’s Bobby and he’s a painter by trade, and he tells the filthiest jokes that Angie has ever heard. Young and sweet, he’s like Peggy- he likes both. He’s getting married to his high school sweetheart, and they’re young and in love- Angie and Peggy are both invited to their wedding.

 

There's a younger man named John who follows Bobby wherever he goes, and he's like Angie. He has love written across his face and longing in his eyes, and he moves like he knows he can never have what he wants.

 

(He’s the best man, but whenever someone mentions it he looks like his heart’s being ripped out.)

 

Angie knows it’s wrong, but whenever she sees them all she feels is relief. Relief that she gets to have Peggy like she does, their legs tangled together at night, Peggys hands pushing off her dress, their rings on each other's fingers even if they're not the fingers they'd both like (Angie sometimes pretends that she's married to Peggy in the eyes of God. She feels so bad afterwards, but it's worth it for that one moment of bliss), because every time she sees John with his eyes following a man who doesn't love him, she feels sick to her stomach with how easily that could have been her.

 

New York's not the kinda place for slow, but sometimes Angie wishes she could have gone slow like if she was a man. If Angie was a man they could have stepped out like a real couple, gone on dates, Angie could give her roses and chocolates and everyone would have known what it meant- Angie could’ve given Peggy a ring and the world would know that they were together. But the only places they can kiss and be sweet are out of the way bars where they have to be careful, where they fear for their safety but they can finally show others who they are, and it’s so good, but Angie almost feels dirty after she goes, like it’s all wrong, like she’s wrong-

 

But Angie’s been doll-dizzy all her life, and she’ll be damned if someone tells her that she was a sinner before she could walk.

 

New York’s not the kinda place for slow, but Angie takes her time with Peggy anyway, praying to a god everyone says doesn’t believe in her that they’ll have years to explore what they mean to each other. They live in the same house, and they do their shopping together, and when Peggy gets the call that Washington wants her, well, Angie follows her there, too- there may not be Broadway, but there’ll always be theatres.

  
There’s only one Peggy Carter, and by God, she’s the only gal Angie’ll ever need.

**Author's Note:**

> happy birthday to [peggay-carter](peggay-carter.tumblr.com)! 
> 
> title from panic! at the disco's Hallelujah. Bobby and John were also loosely based on the artists Robert Rauschenberg and Jasper Johns (you may be interested in knowing that the actual artists did get together, for a number of years, and co-founded the neo-dada movement together).


End file.
